StarCraft: Kingdom Come
by godsavant
Summary: Fellowship, the fourth myth of reality: As the tides of war shift, so do loyalties.'
1. Jacked up & Good to go

---------Post-Briefing--------

Yo, waddup! I'm taking time out of my schedule to finish up this story, for all my fans out there. There will be occasional grammatical updates, but this is about it, for now.

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StarCraft: KINGDOM COME

-I-

High above the stratosphere of the planet Char, a swarm of clustered shapes floated about. The faintly glittering stars and shining planets in the distance created an eerie, solitary backdrop suited for the situation. From afar, they could easily be dismissed as a field of rotting space debris, but upon closer inspection, their metallic textures and ornate designs revealed their true nature.

They were a squadron of Confederate star craft.

It was a grand sight to see. Vessels of all shapes and sizes dotted the lines of the fleet, the pride and grandeur of their ranks signified by the proud, shining insignia of the Confederacy emblazoned onto the sides of their ships. The crafts moved in perfect harmony, sailing fearlessly into the depths of unknown space as one unified juggernaut force. It was an embodiment of the Terran Confederacy of Man.

Among the huddled masses of miniature fighters were several giant battle cruisers, soaring gracefully through the dark depths of space. They were large enough to be mistaken for active space-platforms, with their array of floodlights and steel armoring. From the hulls of the gigantic vessels, A-17 Wraith fighter jets flooded out, like blood from a festering wound. The small, agile jets had a set of three wings sprouting from the main body, equipped with plasma lasers and _Gemini_-series missile packs, and swarmed the battle cruisers like hornets defending their nest. Of course, the huge laser cannons installed onto the fronts of the huge battleships signified that the nests were more than capable of defending themselves.

Several Wraiths tailed past the main squadron, forming into a defensive line towards a trio of drop-ships near the flank. The awkward transport vessels greatly resembled giant fish, brimming with Terran ground infantry and raw materials. They moved nimbly through web of ships, nestling into a safe position behind the grand battle cruisers. All in all, it was a relatively small battery, consisting of the admiral ships, and a company of defensive vessels.

Among the numbers was a single flagship battle cruiser, its prominence made evident by the numerous Wraiths orbiting about its wings and body. It carried itself with a confidence that had been forged by years of battle and duty, wearing its dents and scars like medals from past conflicts, and prepared to acquire more.

-------

Judas Sumter stood rigid; his eyes locked on the raving commander, a man named Copley. His first name had never been revealed to the platoon, for fear of them referring to him in a more affectionate nickname. The aging officer wore a brown toupee that painfully contrasted with his snow-white beard and moustache, and was much despised by the marines. Judas casually shifted in his seat.

"All right, kiddies. Get your asses wiped and your guns loaded, 'cause we're movin' out in ten minutes, understand? Drop whatever the hell you're doing, suit up, grease down, and report back here in ten minutes! Move your asses!" Copley shrieked, his voice being the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard.

"Yes, sir!" was the unified reply.

The marines bustled out of the room, murmuring among themselves. Judas, however, simply remained in his chair, puffing on his cigarette. Copley gathered his papers and walked out of the room hurriedly, leaving Sumter to himself. Fortunately, he was in no hurry. He was a Terran Ghost.

Judas silently rose from the cheap plastic chair, and headed for the locker room. The interior of the ship smelled of dirt and lint, the result of stale oxygen pumped from sweltering boiler rooms built into the basements of the gigantic ship. The floor was covered in dried mud and water, and the metal walls were dull and foreboding; scratches and dents plastered the walls, like a ravenous animal had been unleashed within. In Judas's opinion, the Terran Confederacy military's architects could use an interior designer. Then again, the ship had not been built for the purpose of the crew's comfort.

In the deathly silence amidst space, he could only hear the light clinking of his identification tag.

Absently, Judas grasped the thin metal piece lightly in his hand, staring at the letters upon it in the flickering light of the ancient neon lamps above.

Judas M. Sumter

Confederate Covert Ops

12049

'_12049…'_ he thought to himself. _'Yes, that is who I am…'_

The thought gave him comfort. The thought that he was part of a society, however unattached, that he was working to achieve a greater good; it gave him a small dose of joy in his cold heart. It was the only thing he could remember, the only thing he knew.

'_Think, Judas; you are a defender of freedom, a part of the Confederacy. That is the highest honor. The others are all blind of our struggles, the unfaithful, the treasonous; who can we count on to defend us, if not you?'_

He silently flicked his cigarette stub onto the floor of the locker room, mashing it with the thick sole of his boot. He pried open the door of his 'locker', a small compartment squeezed between many other identical ones, fitted with thin aluminum doors, rusted and bent in a way that the lock did not fit quite right against the socket. It was a cubby, really. From within, Judas pulled forth a GST-700 combat vest, and slipped it on. Adrenaline began to rush through his veins, the hunger for blood that had been trained into his mind. At the same time, he felt a nagging fear, a fear of being overwhelmed. A fear of death.

That fear evaporated as he pulled out his slick, black C-10 pump-action canister rifle.

In three minutes, Judas was completely suited up, and standing patiently in the boarding dock of the ship. Several marines trudged in, decked out in full CMC-300 heavy marine combat armor. In their heavy gauntleted hands, they packed 68.00mm gauss needle rifles. Loaded with live rounds, probably. The marines strode in with pride, apparently feeling superior in their enlarged exoskeletons. Judas suppressed the urge to laugh. With their bulletproof visors up, they looked like weak insects packed into armored shells.

A heavily built dark-skinned marine stepped up to his face. The marine's identification tagged him as Steven Walker.

"You got something' funny to share, boy?" he questioned, sneering. His teeth were all false, as far as Sumter could see. He pounded his armored chest for emphasis.

Judas was not the least bit impressed. "No, sir." He said innocently, laughing silently at the fact that he was addressing a marine as a superior. His response, however false, seemed to satisfy the marine. "A'ight, then." He said, an urban accent thick in his voice. He returned to his place in the ranks of marines.

Several other marines filed in, crowding the room with their massive bulk. They bustled into a hurried line, as Copley stormed into the room, in his usual angry manner. He wore a marine command suit, complete with reinforced armor plating and a double-barrel gauss rifle. He seemed strangely out of context with the huge suit, given his wiry frame.

"All right, boys, the transport's gonna take us down to the planet surface. Remember, we're just goin' to clean up the Confederacy's shit. Keep frosty, but I don't want you startin' a firefight unless ya have to, got that?"

The marines nodded their approval. One by one, they boarded the drop-ship, their which groaned under their weight. The interior of the ship was bleached and cold, almost like a freezer. Of course, drop-ships had been built that way; it was certainly better than the alternative.

Judas hopped into the hatch, and squeezed himself into a far corner, trying to get some elbowroom away from the bulky marines. As the last soldier boarded the ship, the doors slid shut and sealed themselves with a click. Through the thick walls of the ship, Judas could hear the deafening roar of the engines as the craft blasted from the ship's hold, and out into a vast, dark space.

The drop-ship was filled the smell of cigarettes and the jabbering of post-mission trainees. From the front of the ship, Copley shouted over the din of a crowd of juvenile delinquent soldiers screaming, laughing, and talking all at once.

"OK, boys, we're almost there! It's a clean zone, so I want all your visors down! Lock and load, there should be a new round in your gun by the time we get off!"

With primal instinct, Sumter ejected his rifle clip and jammed in a new one, loading it into position. His hand was gripped tightly onto the handle, his finger hovering intently over the figure. The marines casually loaded their weapons, oblivious to the fact that their lives may very well depend on the amount of ammunition they had.

Copley piped up again. "We're touchin' down! I want all of ya' scum to buddy up and fan out. If one partner gets hurt, both of ya' report back!"

The pilot switched onto the comm channel. "Seatbelts, boys. Mark in five…four…three…two…one…"

The ship halted with a giant tremor. Several marines stumbled onto the floor, and struggled to their feet in their armored suits. After a brief second of silence as the engines died down, the doors decompressed with a hiss, and the marines began pushing and shoving their way out as soon as a crack presented itself. Judas tried to stay out of their way, not wanting to leave the premises of the ship.

But when he did, he could not come to terms with what he saw.


	2. No Man's Land

What's up? I haven't been to this section for a while, so I'm glad there's been progress. I'll try my best to write more Starcraft, but then again, you guys probably wouldn't care.

Disclaimer: I don't own StarCraft, as if I had to say that.

StarCraft

KINGDOM COME 

**-III-**

The landscape had been totaled.

The sight before him may have once been a grand city, with towering skyscrapers and wide speedways. Now, all that was left of the metropolis were huge, twisted sentinels of building frames, surrounded by bits of flaming wreckage and shattered rock. Tall, complex support towers lay at their feet, bent and half-melted; A fallen water tower jutted up from the ruins, its metallic exterior rusted and charred, with a large plate of the metal torn off. The once-sandy ground had been melted down into charred glass, and was piled high with twisted steel beams, blackened and fused together. Sumter coughed at the virulent fumes that plagued the air; several marines had already raised their visors.

Overhead, red and black clouds, formed from the dust and smoke of the ruins, choked out any trace of natural light. Shattered brick and cement walls lay in the wake of the destruction, cracked and peeling, amid huge heaps of broken glass and metal wires. Judas wondered how majestic the city must have been, before it met its unfortunate end.

"Sumter!" Walker called from behind the Ghost. "Welcome to Chau Sara, boy. Now get your ass out of the hatchway, before I have to shoot you!" Sumter immediately complied.

The area was little more than a thick forest of broken stones and twisted metal. Copley clambered onto a pile of compromised stones and glass, and began shrieking at the platoon of militia arranged before him. "Lux! Start scoutin' the northern area, I'll have a team of 'bats follow ya. Soto, your team will search for survivors." He commanded.

Sumter rushed over to the aged commander. "Sir, what happened here?"

Copley raised a stern eyebrow. "Well, whaddya _think_, private? There was a nuclear lockdown! What else could cause so much destruction?"

Judas lowered his tone, his eyes boring into Copley's. "Sir, this was definitely _not_ the result of a nuclear strike. Where are the bodies?"

The commander snorted irritably. "They got vaporized, most likely. The impact of a nuke is enough to wipe out just about anything. That's none of your concern."

"Sir, I'm a Confederate Ghost specialist, and I've called down enough nukes to know that they do not vaporize bodies, but leave building frames standing." Sumter said, gazing around; the marines were already beginning to pick their way past the wreckage, into the depths of the ruins.

Copley narrowed his eyes, matching Sumter's stern tone. "Private, I'm a veteran Confederate commander, and I've trained enough Ghosts to know that they're supposed to _follow_ orders, not question them. _Now get back in line._" With that, Copley stomped off to supervise the operation.

A middle–aged man strode up to Sumter, kicking at the molten ground with his armored foot. He was a marine, decked out in heavy CMC-300 battle armor; the armored shell was scratched rather badly, and a slightly visible burn mark rested on the side of his right shoulder guard. He was toting a command-issue _Impaler_-series automatic gauss rifle, oiled and spit-shined to perfection. He had a neatly trimmed beard surrounded by slight stubble, with a head of dark brown hair falling over his hard, black eyes. A pair of wide-rimmed glasses rested on the crook of his rather large nose.

"Weird, ain't it? Mar Sara was the top tourist location, then someone comes outta nowhere and wipes it out." The man said amusedly, extending a hand to Sumter. "The name's Ben Wildes. You can just stick with me, son, I'll keep ya outta trouble." He said reassuringly, waving his rifle in the air for emphasis.

Sumter shook it, not taking up on the marine's offer. "Uh…sure. Judas Sumter, Confederate Covert Ops."

Wildes raised an eyebrow. "A Ghost, huh? Well, here's the plan: We're just gonna sweep the perimeter, gather some evidence, y'know? Prove that we've been doing our job. After that, we'll get the hell all outta this grill."

Sumter nodded. "Gotcha."

The duo marched into the ruins of the demolished city, careful to avoid dangerous drops and unstable walls. Occasionally, they would come across a torn flag or the rusted, bent frame of a vehicle, but other than that, all other traces of civilization had been wiped out completely. The marine squads were picking their way through the massive rubble. Though they all knew that with the destruction wrought to the city, the chances finding any survivors were fairly impossible.

Copley's shrill voice crackled over the line. "_Damnit, these people are useless. Have ya found anything yet?"_

Sumter sighed as he spoke into the receiver. "Negative, sir. _Whatever_ did this, it did a damn good job. I'll look to the northeast."

Copley grumbled to himself. _"Knock yourself out. Remember, this is just cleanup duty, so don't try **too** hard, y'hear?"_

"Yes, sir." Sumter replied, if only to get the screeching old man off his case.

He clambered through the spokes of a fallen water tower, careful to dodge the sharp edges. The upper support beams had been bent at such an angle that Judas had to kneel to avoid injuring his head. Wildes followed hurriedly, the heavy suit making him considerably slower.

"See anything?" Sumter called from ahead.

"Hell, I can't see shit with this visor down." Wildes said, his voice tense. Sumter could see that at some point in the near future, he might have to _protect_ Wildes. "It's in plain daylight that there ain't nobody alive."

Sumter, indeed, could not see any life, even with the heat goggles and ocular implants that were customary for a Terran Ghost. He patched himself up to the command channel. "Still negative, sir. We've got, like, zero vision out here in the smoke. If anything, the impact sight was farther back west."

Copley replied. "Copy that, private. Murray and Soto think they've got somethin' 'bout 27 degrees north of the landin' sight. Meet up with 'em, and let's see what they got." Copley rambled. The sound of his droning nearly put Judas to sleep. He deftly motioned to Wildes, who nodded silently and marched back. Sumter slowly tuned the receiver until he reached Murray's channel, wincing as a slight ringing entered his ears.

"Murray, where are you?"

Silence ensued, and for a moment, Sumter feared the worst. Then the thread crackled to life, and Murray's high-pitched voice resonated faintly over the line. "_Thank god, man, I thought you guys had forgotten about us. We're at…uh, well, hell, I dunno where the fuck we are, but we got somethin' you gotta see."_

Wildes tuned in, marching in line ahead of Sumter. "Ah, cut the crap, boy." Wildes snapped. "What the hell _is_ it?"

Murray sighed. "Alright, I'm not very big on details, but it looks like some kinda…ship."

There was a pause on the line, as Sumter absorbed the information.

"Hang on, I'll be right there. Sumter, _out_."

He shut off his receiver, and he broke into a sprint. Broken stones crunched beneath his steel-toed boots as he made for the landing site.


	3. White Noise

StarCraft

**KINGDOM COME**

Murray seemed relieved by Sumter's arrival. Apparently, the dark, desolate mood of the place was starting to take its toll on the young recruit. Judas guessed that only the effects of resocialization was keeping him from loading his gauss rifle and shooting himself. Sumter took little notice. Instead, his eyes were fixed in optimism at Murray's 'discovery', which Sumter noted, could indeed be a ship, though its design was one that was foreign to his eyes.

"So, ah, what do you think?" Murray asked.

The giant vessel was shaded a yellow-gold color, which seemed to shine, even in the smoking, lightless gloom of the planet's atmosphere. The architecture was unlike any he had seen before; the ship had no apparent wings, which led Judas to wonder how it managed to fly. The entire aircraft was huge, roughly the size of their dropship.

"Where's Soto?" Sumter asked, pulling off his goggles to get a closer look.

Murray glanced around nervously. His partner was nowhere to be seen. "Uh…ah, probably just goin' to the john."

Judas drew closer to the ship, running his hand over its smooth surface. The vessel seemed to hum faintly, as if alive. To him, the vessel was but the skeleton of a grand ship, devastated by the disaster that befell the city.

Murray peered over his shoulder, visor drawn down. "Does this thing work?" he asked, out of youthful curiosity.

Sumter shook his head. "I doubt it. There's no wings or anti-grav pods on the ship, and with this structure, it would have fallen apart in hyperspace. It's a miracle that it's still in one piece, with all the destruction out here."

Murray nodded, and motioned for Judas to move out of the way. The young marine carefully brought up his rifle, and fired a round 9mm gauss spikes at the heart of the ship. It took Sumter a few seconds to comprehend what happened next.

The spikes ricocheted off of the air about a foot from the ship, sending blue sparks flying into the air. The area around the ship rippled with neon energy.

Sumter switched on his comlink without hesitation. "_Command, we've found something." _

"_Negative, private. Leave it. We're haulin' our asses outta here."_ Copley snapped, annoyed by the abruptness of his report.

Sumter was startled. "What! Sir, this is a phenomenal finding; we can't just leave it here!"

"_Oh, can't we?"_

Even over the link, Judas could sense his smirk.

"_Command, this is Soto! We've got numerous anomalies on the net! Two…no, make that three…my god! They're warping in all over the place! Murray, get your lazy ass over here! We've got company!"_

Copley's voice pierced the link. _"Negative, Soto! All squads take up positions at the front gully! Firebats, assume frontal assault groups! We'll give you some cover fire! Sweep the field, and don't do anything crazy! Move, damnit, MOVE!"_

"_This is Walker. I can't see anything hostile from here. Soto, are you sure your radar's not just screwed up?"_

"_I copy that, sarge. Nothing's showin' up on my radar. Kivvens, out." _

"_I'm **serious**, man! There's a whole swarm of 'em!"_

"_Quit it, Soto. You ain't spookin' nobody."_

"_Command, this is Wildes. I think I'm picking up something…you're right, Soto, but there's only…GOOD GOD! There's an entire fleet!"_

"_I still ain't **seein**' nothin', man."_

"_Switch your frequency to internal, idiot!"_

"_Yeah, well…holy shit! Motherfkers, they're right in front of us! Kivvens, run! You're too close! KIVVENS!"_

"_Kivvens is down! They're using some kind of cloaking technology! Command!"_

"_This is Copley! Murray, you go with Walker and Kenny! The rest of ya, fall back into the defensive lines! Sumter, scout the enemies; we need to know who they are before we can fight them! Lux-" _

Sumter switched off his receiver. He had his orders.

Overhead, Judas could hear the bustling feet of the marines, struggling to form up behind the ranks of firebats. The skies remained vacant, but Sumter had long since learned not to trust his senses. His sources told him that the skies were teeming with unseen enemies, ready to strike.

As in sources, he meant whatever Copley told him.

Murray grabbed onto his shoulder, fear written in bold across his face. It was definitely his first time in an actual hazardous situation.

"What do I do, man?" he stammered, his voice strained and trembling.

Judas shrugged off his hand. "You heard the man. Meet up with your new _compadres_."

"B-but what about Soto?" Murray asked, his eyes darting about the rubble heaps, looking for an enemy that could not be seen. Sumter almost felt sorry for him.

"He's an expert. He should be fine." Sumter said reassuringly, fully aware that Soto was probably neither. "Trust in him, kid."

His words must have worked, because Murray released his death grip, and hoisted the gun to his chest. A rock tumbled from a nearby pile of rubble, and Murray gave a girlish scream, before spraying the mound with several rounds of spikes.

Sumter jumped. "Hey! Calm down, kid!"

Murray managed to release his stiff finger from the trigger, nodded briskly, and jogged off to meet with his new grouping. Judas waited until Murray disappeared over the crest of the hill, then began running in the opposite direction.

He got about five feet before the carnage began.


	4. Dog Tag

StarCraft

**KINGDOM COME**

'**Old soldiers never die; they just fade away'**

**-General Douglas MacArthur**

Murray jogged steadily towards the drop site, his gauss rifle planted firmly into his gauntleted hand. The servos in his suit groaned as he bounded through the devastation.

'_I am strong'_, he thought. _'I am a Confederate marine.'_

The thought did little to calm his pulsing nerves. A sudden wave of paranoia overwhelmed him, and he began to run faster. He rounded another bend, swinging his rifle in such a fashion that it disabled any actual use of the weapon. With a trembling hand, pulled the receiver to his ear.

"S-Soto, what's your condition?" he asked nervously, his eyes darting wildly about the wreckage.

Silence greeted his transmission.

"Soto?" Murray asked, with more urgency in his voice. Deciding that it would be better to seek the report of a more active team member, he bit his lip, and tuned the headset to another channel. "Walker, state your location."

Again, silence. Sweat began to bead on his brow, as more malicious thoughts coursed through his mind. He silently asked himself what had intrigued him into joining the marines in the first place.

"Kenny! Lux! Somebody answer me!" he cried, hoping that his or her voices would emerge onto the channel. They did not.

_Shit_, he thought. His sense of bravery and discipline had been replaced by a feeling of pure terror. His loaded gauss rifle, however potent, felt weak and useless in his hand. His head began to throb, as the mental effects of resocialization struggled to return his body into a state of homeostasis. His dread deepened by the second, as he stood immobile in the clearing, waiting for a message that was not forthcoming.

"…_Murray! Murray, are you still there?"_ Copley's voice shrieked from the receiver. The shrill sound nearly burst his eardrums, but he was too terrified to care.

"Command! Thank god, sir!" Murray said, realizing that he had been holding his breath for about two minutes.

Copley snorted. _"Don't celebrate just yet. You've got a hostiler comin' at ya at about 48 degrees southbound of your location. Hit em' with all you've got." _

Murray's brow furrowed. "'Hostiler', sir?"

"'Enemy', private."

His grip immediately tightened on the handle of his rifle.

"Oh. Roger that."

Kenny furiously sprayed the red-hot flames into the incoming masses of invaders. His flamethrower thrashed wildly in his hand, as if unable to contain the scorching fire that it was delivering by the second.

"_Lux, sweep the hill to your right; the bastards are getting' too close to the barrier!" _Copley commanded.

"_Negative, sir! I've got Walker's squad in my line of fire!"_ Lux screamed, her voice nearly drowned out by the incessant chattering of her gauss rifle."

He was sweating profusely from the thick of the battle. His suit immediately activated its cooling system, though his feedback system indicated that his plasma generators were getting dangerously close to detonating from the heat. He cursed, as his flames brought down another alien walker.

The creature resembled a huge spider, a giant machine crafted from shining armor plates that adorned its spindly legs and body. Four mechanical appendages propelled it slowly forward. Connected between the legs was a clear tank that was filled with murky, pale liquid. As the flames engulfed the alien's body, the liquid within the tank began to boil, and Kenny gagged as he noticed a seemingly disembodied head floating within the machine, implanted with tubes and wires. Soon the liquid seeped out, sizzling and bubbling atop the machine's burning metal plates. The creature collapsed in a molten heap, its legs giving out uselessly beneath it.

"Gimme some cover fire while I cool down!" Kenny shouted into the receiver. He jogged past the line of marines, who were furiously holding back the alien troops with their hail of gunfire. Even from afar, he could hear the servos of their combat suits groaning against the force from the heavy recoil of active gauss rifles, firing 300 rounds per second.

Bright streaks flew through the air on both sides. In the distance, he could see dark, indistinct shapes converging from the sky, like silent birds of prey. As they burst free from the mist, Kenny was faced with the sight of an entire fleet of alien aircrafts. There were several squadrons of ships resembling fighter jets, and which Kenny assumed, served the same purpose.

Others were small and agile, their sleek golden designs soaring high into the air, though their wings and hulls sported no evident weapon of any sort. Occasionally, a gigantic freighter ship would burst from the clouds, surrounded by tiny probe-like ships that attended it like guard ants. The next moment, it would be gone, swallowed whole by the fog.

In that brief moment, there was a series of flashes that lit up the sky.

Kenny gasped. "All hands on deck!" he shouted furiously into the receiver.

Instantly, a gigantic series of explosions rocked the earth, spraying flames and molten shrapnel in all conceivable directions. Over the line, Lux gave a horrid scream, her voice shrill. _"Damn! I'm hit! Argh…damnit, it's an aerial assault! All my systems are down! Sarge, I need a med, pronto!"_

"_Hold it! I'm the one who decides that! Negative, private, the meds would be mincemeat in seconds out there! Now, just sit tight, missy, we'll collect you later."_ Copley retorted.

"_What? NO! God, help me! Argh…" _Lux faded from the line.

Copley resumed his ranting. _"Goddamn it, they've got air units! Sid, do something to keep the bastards occupied for a while. Walker! Anti-aircraft, now!"_

"_Look, chief, whaddya think I'm doing?"_ Walker shouted. His words were drowned out by another resounding explosion.

Kenny slid his visor down, and crept up to the defense lines the marines had set up. It appeared that the marine's weapons were having little effect on the ground units; the aliens were equipped with shields, as well. Another scream broke over the line.

The firebat drew a deep breath, and jumped into the fray. Orange flames licked the terrain like wildfire, cremating anything that was in its path. Overhead, the extraterrestrial aircrafts were wreaking havoc onto the marine lines with deadly precision.

Explosions dotted the earth left and right, peppering the combatants with rocks, dirt and blood. Left and right, smoking craters were blown into the ground.

"_Sir! There's too many of 'em! We need aerial evac, now!"_ Kenny shouted.

"_No, damnit! We have to hold out!"_ Copley shrieked frantically.  
Soto tuned in. _"Sir, they're warping in all over the place! There's at least seven hundred strong!"_

"_Seven hundred, it is, then!"_

Kenny ground his teeth as another alien broke through the defense line. The marines were going down by the second, their limp bodies tumbling down from the wall.

"_They've breached the last defense, sir! We're under heavy fire!"_ Soto shouted. As if to emphasize his distress, another series of explosions tore through the lines of armored soldiers.

"_Ah…damn it! Retreat! Bring all your remaining men back to the landing site, ASAP!"_ Copley growled, not warming at the idea of defeat.

At the time, Kenny could have cared less. He did not need a second invitation, as he stumbled over the rocks, meeting any threat with a burst of fire to the face. _No one_ would stand between him in his mad scramble to his flight ticket.

Several marines were blasted high into the air by the enemy's relentless fire, their agonized screams broadcasted over the line. Several crippled soldiers lay among the rocks and craters, groaning and reaching for him. He kicked their writhing bodies aside, like stones. His extensive military training had taught his mind to avoid pity, and to consider fallen comrades as little more than a dead weight. With great bounds, he sprinted frantically towards the dropship.

As he scrambled into the hatch, he could see that several squads of battered marines had already managed to flee to the dropship, and were squirming uncomfortably in their armor, eager to leave the battle site as soon as possible. Kenny could tell that many of them were already considering abandoning the remaining stragglers to their fate. At the moment, it seemed like a great idea.

More soldiers climbed madly on board, some shedding their heavy rifles and ammunition packs in the process. Of the few marines that had survived the carnage, there were few firebat troopers among them. A wave of dread crawled up Kenny's spine.

In the near distance, he could still see Copley in his infantry command suit, accompanied by a small cache of marines who were holding a defensive perimeter around him; or, as the marines liked to put it, covering his ass.

Copley slid down the wet hill, screaming orders to the soldiers firing from atop the hill as he ran towards the dropship. As if on cue, a huge explosion erupted on the hill, and gory bits of marines rained down upon the earth. Copley stared, eyes widened, at the gruesome spectacle, then fiercely shook his head. He fired off a few shots at the aliens for dramatic effect, then tossed his rifle aside and scrambled hastily towards the ship, his hands clasped upon his head in a cowardly fashion. The marines cheered him on, even though Kenny knew that none of them would miss him if he failed to survive.

It was not the first time Kenny had speculated about how he would have made a better lieutenant than Copley, nor would it be the last.

Sumter clambered into the hatch, firing another round before taking his place among the marines. Another explosion rocked the earth, this time a few meters form the ship. The enemy was closing in. Luckily, the ship's engine sputtered, stalled, then roared to life. It began to lift from the ground. Copley yelled and sprinted even faster, trying to reach the departing ship.

Kenny extended a hand to his commander, even as the ship levitated a few feet into the air. Copley grabbed it desperately and clung on, as he dragged his bulk aboard, into the hatch. The commander took a few moments to catch his breath; his thermal regulators worked frantically to cool him down. As Sumter watched the other marines help their aged commander to his feet, Copley turned to him, an exhausted expression upon his face. Old men were just not meant to run at thirty-five miles per hour.

"Thanks, private." He uttered, between gasps of air.

Kenny snorted, and shakily reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes.

"You owe me."

Slowly, carefully, Sumter disarmed his rifle, as the marines led the commander to the back of the ship. He lifted the cigarette to his lips, and felt the cold, hard glance of his identification tag, strung on a thin braid. Silently, he drew the tag from his neck, feeling the rough, scratched surface of the small key chain. The edges seemed to be bent out of shape, as if it had been melted and cooled again; tongues of smoke from his cigarette curled around the steel tag.

But even as he remembered having this tag for many years, he discovered, for the first time, that it looked very much like a tag a person would put on the leash of a dog.

He read the small, indented letters, worn by years of age:

Judas M. Sumter

Confederate Covert Ops

12049

'_Almost impossible to tell that it was about a human…about me…'_

But the tag…

He stared at the tag for a long while, even as he felt the ship slowly begin to launch into the air. He read the tag numerous times, trying to draw some meaning from the words.

'A leash…' 

'_**My **leash…'_

Slowly, his gaze shifted towards the fast-departing ruins of Chau Sara through the thin hatches of the dropship. His grip tightened onto the dog tag, his mind filling with thoughts, thoughts that the Confederacy had sealed from his conscience long ago…

He quietly extended a hand out of the hatch…and let go.

He watched as the dog tag fell, onto the charred ground, far, far below; it clinked faintly on the ground, amid the mountains of rubble and metal, amid the rampaging aliens…

…A testament to a broken leash…

…A harbinger of a kingdom come…

Journal of Judas M. Sumter

32nd Confederate Military Division

…†he ∑nd…


End file.
